


Dark Mirror

by TravelingMagpie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Gen, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, a reverse!reichenbach story, reverse!reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 19:06:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9198821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TravelingMagpie/pseuds/TravelingMagpie
Summary: We've all seen The Reichenbach Fall. We know what happened. We know how Moriarty decided to "burn" Sherlock. But what if he had chosen a different way? What if he had decided to really burn Sherlock's 'heart'? What might it have looked like? Well…Maybe something like this."Reversed Reichenbach".NO SLASH. TW for brief mentions of drugs and potential violence to come.





	1. Prologue

_**Prologue** _

 

"Sherlock Holmes!"

Mycroft's strident voice punctured the silence of 221b and jerked Sherlock from his contemplation of the morphine syringe that lay on the table before him, capped and in a plastic bag. He reached to sweep the incriminating evidence under a pile of newspaper, but his brother was too quick. Scooping up the needle—pilfered from St. Barts, he had no doubt—Mycroft shook it in Sherlock's face.

"This is _not_ reasonable, Sherlock!" he snapped. His face was hard and his lips set in a tight line. "You know better—you _learned_ better, years ago. Or so I thought."

Sherlock spread his hands as if to say _I don't know what you're going on about_ , and sat back on the couch, feigning nonchalance. Mycroft sighed, looked at the evidence of Sherlock's desperation, and dropped the offending object into his coat pocket.

"You know what John would say about this," he said.

Sherlock refused to look up. "Yes, well," he said, clearing his throat. "That's rather the point, now isn't it?" He stood, unfolding to his full height, and straightened the rumpled button-down shirt he wore under his dressing gown. "And I will point out that it has obviously _not_ been used."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, and Sherlock sighed. "Why are you here?" he asked, stepping around his brother and disappearing into the small kitchen.

Mycroft turned to follow him with his gaze, and took a seat in Sherlock's armchair. "I came to check on you," he answered. "You haven't left Baker Street in weeks."

Sherlock smirked at his brother over the top of a tea canister. "That _you've_ seen."

Mycroft's hand went to the small bulge in his coat pocket. "Yes," he admitted. "That I've seen."

Sherlock began to rifle through the kitchen—a mess at the best of times and now looking as if a small tornado had ripped through—for clean cups to use.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade called me today," Mycroft said, raising his voice to be heard. He leaned back and gazed at the ceiling, wondering if he even wanted to know what the dark smudge above his head consisted of. "He said you've turned down three cases in the last month. He's worried about you, believe it or not. Aren't you getting tired of sitting around, Sherlock? Doing nothing but—"

A thunderous crash yanked Mycroft to his feet, but he had to duck just as fast, to avoid the teacup aimed at his head. Sherlock stood in the center of a puddle of tea and broken crockery, his face livid with rage. He was panting, and his steel-grey eyes blazed.

"I don't want to _think!_ " he shouted, hurling the second teacup at Mycroft. The elder Holmes dodged, and it shattered against the wall behind him. "I don't want to _think_ , I don't want to _remember_ —I don't want to see everything playing in front of my mind like a movie I can't turn off!"

"Sherlock—"

"The one time it really _mattered_ ," the lanky young detective continued, stalking toward Mycroft and clenching his fists, "The _one time_ I really needed to think, needed to figure it out—I failed. I missed clues so obvious a child could have—"

"Sherlock." Mycroft halted his brother's tirade with an upraised hand. "You did everything you could."

Sherlock stared at him, a muscle in his jaw pulsing with tension. Mycroft, usually immune to his brother's 'moods,' had to suppress the urge to step back. "You did everything you could," he repeated.

It was as if the words cut through the puppeteer's strings holding Sherlock upright. He wilted, all of the fire and energy sapped out of him in a long sigh. He sank into the armchair across from Mycroft—John's chair—and massaged his temples with long, white, trembling fingers.

"That's the worst of it, you know," he said, his voice now so low that Mycroft had to strain to hear. "I did _everything_ I possibly could…And I still failed. If I could have just _thought_ a little faster, made connections in just a fraction less time…"

Mycroft Holmes, so unused to feeling much besides irritation, calculation, and satisfaction, felt his heart soften. This man—his little brother—suddenly shrank from a masterful young man into a grieving little boy. Mycroft opened his mouth as if to say something—but then closed it, and let out a long sigh through his nose.

"No one blames you for any of this, Sherlock," he said at last. His brother looked up sharply, and Mycroft inclined his head. "No one but yourself. However, personal regrets aside, I cannot allow you to continue holing yourself up in your flat for weeks on end. Ah—" he held up a forestalling hand, and Sherlock bit back his protests. "I know you don't want to work with the Yard just yet. There is a position available on my staff and I think it might interest you. You would be tracking the cyber trails of Moriarty's gang."

Mycroft, as skilled as his brother at following someone's train of thought through their facial expression and other cues (even if he wasn't quite so _brazen_ about his gift), knew the exact moment when Sherlock decided.

"I'm interested," the dark-haired detective said. He stood and tugged his shirt straight.

"Good."

"Under one condition."

"Yes?"

Sherlock's face, so open a second before, turned as hard and expressionless as a concrete wall. "I will follow the trail, but when the chase ends—I make the kill."

Mycroft examined his brother for a long moment, scrutinizing the younger Holmes' face as if looking for something in particular. Finally satisfied, he nodded.

"Agreed."

Sherlock cracked a feral smile. "Wonderful. Let's go." He scooped a jacket from the table and headed for the door, grabbing up his scarf and coat as he went.

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. "Now?"

Sherlock didn't even wait to see if his brother was following him. "Now," he called over his shoulder, starting down the stairs. "The sooner we start, the sooner I can rid the world of John Watson's killer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all -- no, I haven't abandoned my Gravity Falls works, not really. I swear, I WILL get back to them. Life has been rather hectic the last few months, and while I've got another few chapters written, they haven't been edited and aren't ready to post.  
> I really prefer the layout and look of AO3 over ff.net and have decided to start reposting all my old works over here, so apologies in advance if you're one of my followers and you get a crap-ton of emails alerting you to new chapters. I'll try to pace myself. :D  
> Anyway, this is a reverse!reichenbach fic I originally wrote soon after Reichenbach aired, during the Great Hiatus between seasons three and four. Let me know what you think, and I'll do my best to get back to The Haunted Staircase soon.  
> Love all,  
> ~Maggie


	2. Three Months Earlier

"What are you calling this one?"

Sherlock leaned over John's shoulder and peered at the computer screen, nearly spilling his mug of coffee. John shrugged.

" _The Hounds of Baskerville,_ " he said. "Couldn't think of a really good name for this one. Decided to go with the obvious."

"Hm." Sherlock backed away and settled into his armchair, flicking open the morning paper and sipping his drink. "You're good with obvious."

For a few moments, there was silence in the flat as John reread through his blog entry and Sherlock examined the paper.

"Bored."

John sighed and turned around. "It's not even ten o'clock, Sherlock."

Sherlock tossed the paper on the floor and waved a hand in the air. "As if I can _help_ what time the world decides to be boring."

"You need a hobby."

"I have a hobby."

"Something that doesn't involve explosives, cadavers or questionable chemical compounds would be a nice change." John returned his attention to his computer and hit _'create new post.'_

"There," he said, standing and snapping the laptop shut. "Well, I'm off to work. Text if you need anything."

Sherlock, staring at the ceiling, said nothing. John shook his head and left to get his coat and keys, smiling a little. It was like living with a twelve-year-old, sometimes. Only this twelve-year-old was allowed to go places by himself and get into situations that any normal kid would be hard pressed to even imagine. Then again, he doubted that Sherlock had ever been what one would consider a 'normal' kid.

Just as he was opening the door that led out of 221b and into the street, Sherlock's voice shouted down the stairs.

"John!"

"Yeah?"

Sherlock's curly head poked around the corner at the top of the steps. "Lestrade just texted. Body in a parking garage."

"Good. Lovely. Have fun." John tugged open the door.

"What—not coming with me?"

John laughed. "Sherlock, I just took a week's leave to go to Dartmoor. I can't ask someone to cover for me today."

"Ah..." Sherlock's growl of frustration was almost comical. "You and your principles. Fine. I'll see you tonight."

"Right, then. Bye." And with that, John walked out the door and into the bright morning sunshine. He felt slightly disappointed that he couldn't follow Sherlock, but honestly—he had a job. A job he'd prefer to keep, thank you very much. Besides, he'd be sure to get all the gory details from Sherlock this evening. Probably over dinner.

He made a mental note to pick up something that didn't involve red sauce.

 

* * *

 

 

"What do we have?"

Lestrade looked up from a clipboard he was signing as Sherlock swept into the half-empty parking garage.

"Homicide," he said. "Jeremy Ovington. Stockbroker. No romantic connections that we can see, no problems at work." He shrugged and jerked the pen over his shoulder, pointing Sherlock in the direction of the body. "Seems a decent enough bloke."

"Mm. They all do after they're dead," Sherlock said, brushing past. He strode to the prostrate figure on the concrete floor. Crouching low to examine the body, he asked, "Weapon?"

"Nowhere to be seen."

Sherlock grunted and took in all the details he could before touching anything. _Mid-forties. Worked out once—maybe twice a week. Laugh lines around eyes, well-liked, but no close connections. Private sort. Dyed his hair—vain. Hmm…_ He picked up the man's arm and examined the watch. _Expensive watch—sports brand, stainless steel, red face. Bit showy. No jewelry though, a man's man. Right handed, clean nails…what's this?_

"Did you see this?" Sherlock pointed at the tiny puncture wound in the man's forefinger.

Lestrade came over and bent down to squint. "Nah, we didn't. Autopsy usually catches that sort of thing. What is it?"

"Looks like an injection site," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "Or he could have just stabbed himself with a pin." Dropping the arm, he reached out and lifted one of the dead man's eyelids.

"Nope, definitely injected with something. Ophilemene, to judge by the inflammation in the eyes." He let the eyelid drop and looked up at Lestrade. "He may not have even been conscious when he died. They drugged him, brought him here, and shot him."

"Who?"

Sherlock shrugged and stood. "Don't know yet. Where did he work?"

"Kentworthy and Ovington. Private stock consultants. The address is online." Lestrade glanced over his shoulder at the other members of the force, bustling around taking pictures and scribbling on clipboards. "But you didn't hear that from me."

Sherlock's mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. "Mum's the word," he agreed.

Lestrade shook his head as Sherlock whipped out of the room in a flurry of dark hair and coat. "You know," the detective inspector said conversationally to the lifeless Jeremy Ovington, watching Sherlock leave, "Sometimes I think Donavan might be right—he likes this too much."

Then he looked down at the body. "Then again, _I'm_ the one talking to stiffs, so who am I to judge Sherlock Holmes' sanity?"

Jeremy Ovington said nothing, but Lestrade decided that it was a point well made, and went back to his report.


	3. Magic Bullet

John was leaving the office when his phone buzzed. Digging it out of his pocket, he waved a distracted goodnight to the receptionist and glanced at the screen, expecting to see a shopping list from Sherlock or a request to pick up something from Molly Hooper before he came home. Instead, it was simply a street address, someplace on the Strand, and three words: _Meet me here_.

John rubbed the back of his neck and gave a little groan. Eight hours of work and now Sherlock wanted him to tag along on some investigative caper instead of going home to dinner and that new thriller he had picked up two days ago?

He grinned and hailed a cab. Sherlock knew him well.

 

* * *

 

When he arrived at the address Sherlock had texted him, he wasn't surprised to see the flashing red and blue lights of police cars parked outside the small office—a brick building with white trim and the name of the company in tasteful letters above the door. What did surprise him was that Sherlock wasn't inside. Rather, he waited, pacing back and forth in front of one of the squad cars, his hands buried in his pockets and his face thoughtful.

"Anything interesting?" John asked, crossing the street and joining his friend.

Sherlock looked up at him and blinked, returning to earth. "John. No, nothing. That's the problem."

He began walking down the sidewalk away from the office, and John followed as streetlights began to flicker on above their heads.

"How is that a problem?"

"Even in the most murky of crimes, there's always some sort of indication, some sort of clue, as to the motive." Sherlock shook his head, as if trying to settle his thoughts in place. "But this one…"

"Maybe it was random."

"There is no such thing as a truly random occurrence, John," Sherlock snapped. "Everything has at least some reason, some…purpose. Even if he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time…What sort of casual killer manages to drug his victim by injecting them in the hand?"

"In the hand?"

"Yes. The body. Jeremy Ovington was drugged by someone who first injected ophilemene into his blood stream through his fingertip."

"Ophilemene—that's a pretty rare drug." John tucked his hands into his coat pockets. It was getting chilly. "Taken intravenously, that would knock him out pretty quick."

"Yes. And then he was taken to the parking garage and shot. One bullet to the head—and he may not have even been conscious for the execution. We won't know until after the autopsy."

John shook his head. "And maybe not even then. Ophilemene hasn't been fully tested—technically, it's not approved for use except on animals. They may not be able to create a timeline based on the amounts still in the body." He glanced around. "Where are we going?"

Sherlock stopped and looked about. "No clue, really. I needed to walk." He squinted up at a street sign and nodded toward it. "There's a café three blocks down. Coffee?"

"Definitely."

 

* * *

 

Over sandwiches and cardboard cups of steaming caffeine, Sherlock gave John a rundown of what he knew. It wasn't much.

"OK, well, what are the normal motives for crime?" John asked. "Greed, passion, hate…that about covers everything, doesn't it?"

Sherlock stared out the window into the deepening London night. "Nothing was stolen. As far as we can tell, he had no lovers, and no enemies. Man was as bland as a slice of white bread."

"So…no greed—nothing stolen—and no crimes of passion or anger…" John shrugged. "We must be missing something. Something pretty big."

"Something person-sized," Sherlock agreed. "There's no way this man didn't have any close connections—they must simply be deeply hidden."

John nodded, and the two men fell silent in the corner of the café, while around them, other patrons laughed and talked in the rosy glow of red-shaded lights. There was music playing softly—something classical—and the smells of coffee and baking bread created a warm atmosphere. John, the long day finally catching up to him, could feel his eyes starting to droop.

"What did he look like?" he asked suddenly, startling himself awake.

"Hm? Oh." Sherlock scooped his phone off the table, thumbed into his picture file, and slid the device across the table.

John picked it up, and did a double take. "What the—Oh."

Sherlock was on instant alert. "What?"

Shaking his head, John passed the phone back. "Nothing. I thought for a second I knew him. But it's just a resemblance. Looks a bit like a fellow in my old unit."

"Ah." Sherlock took his phone back and started to slip it into his pocket. It chirped.

"Lestrade?" John asked, as Sherlock checked the text.

"Indeed." The lanky detective sounded intrigued. "There's a second crime scene."

"And…it has something in common with—"

"With Jeremy Ovington, yes." Sherlock stood, gathering his coat from where it hung over the back of the chair. "Coming?"

John checked the clock on the wall. It was only eight thirty. "Wouldn't miss it."

They left the café, taking a cab to the second crime scene, halfway across town. Lestrade met them at the edge of the taped-off area, a graffiti-covered road overpass.

"Two bodies this time," he said, holding up the tape so that Sherlock and John could duck under. "Homeless. Kid came down here on a dare and got the scare of his life."

John spotted a teenager standing by one of the squad cars, talking to an officer. "Anyone you know?" he asked Sherlock.

The tall detective spared the kid one glance. "No."

Lestrade led them to a place mostly in shadow under the bridge, where two bodies lay on the rough gravel. John pressed his lips together. As many crime scenes as he visited with Sherlock, and as much as he had seen overseas, he never got used to death. He hoped he never would.

"Prints say this is Wilson Adams and Helen Nash," Lestrade said. "Both had records of vagrancy and petty theft. Neither one was known to be violent."

Kneeling next to the bodies, Sherlock examined the hands of each. "Same injection mark as Jeremy Ovington," he announced. "These deaths are linked."

Lestrade nodded. "We saw that. Probably would have come out in the coroner's report, but I'm glad you had us looking."

"Wait," John interjected as Sherlock stood and rejoined them. "Linked? Are you saying we may have another serial—"

"Stop." Lestrade glanced back at the other officers. None of them had been close enough to hear. "It may be looking that way, but we don't use those words until we have to. The _last_ thing we need is the press in on this." He said 'press' as if it were a curse word.

"We need the ballistics report on the gun used," Sherlock said. "See if we can't trace it to the owner."

Lestrade shrugged. "Easier said than done. You left too quickly earlier, before we found it."

"Found what?" Sherlock cocked his head. "The weapon?"

"No. I suppose I should say, you left before we _didn't_ find it." Lestrade lowered his voice. "There was no bullet."

"But he was shot—oh." Comprehension dawned on Sherlock's face. "Bullet went clean through."

"Which isn't so unusual, but here's the weird part: there's no bullet anywhere in that garage."

"Someone went to the trouble of finding it and removing it from the scene." John rubbed the bridge of his nose. "What do you want to bet that these two will be the same?"

Sherlock was already walking away. "John, go on back to Baker Street," he threw back over his shoulder. "I'll be in late."

John and Lestrade exchanged glances. "You're not just leaving," the DI called.

"That I am, Lestrade. As ever, your observations are astounding."

And with that, Sherlock Holmes ducked under the crime-scene tape and was gone.

"I wish he wouldn't do that," John muttered.

Lestrade sighed.

"You and me both."


	4. Good News and Bad News

It had been nearly three months since John's last nightmare. He had almost managed to forget the feeling of sick horror they left in his stomach, or the sticky sheen of sweat that coated his back and face. At least this time he had woken on his own, and in his bed, rather than shouting himself awake or being shaken back to reality by his half-irritated, half-concerned flatmate.

It was only six o'clock, and he didn't have to be at the surgery until one. He _had_ hoped to sleep in, after being out so late the night before. But the thought of going back to sleep now, after a dream like that—no thank you. The thing he hated worst about the nightmares was the complete lack of control. Awake, he could protect himself, he could understand the situation. Awake, he was alright.

He was making coffee when Sherlock came in.

"Out already?" John asked, dropping two sugar cubes into a mug and passing it to his flatmate. Sherlock took the drink with a nod and plopped down in his armchair.

"I spoke with a few of my 'homeless network,' as you have dubbed them," he said, as John popped a lid onto his thermos. "I wanted to see if any of them knew Helen Nash or Wilson Adams."

"And?"

"Mm. No luck." Sherlock sipped the coffee and set it down with a slightly-irritated thunk. "A few of them knew who they were, but not why they would be dead under a bridge."

"Anything else to go on?"

"Not yet."

Sherlock had posted pictures from the two crime scenes in a sort of collage around the edges of the mirror that hung over the fireplace—it was his usual method of keeping all his notes in one place until he had a chance to file them away in the binders he kept in his room. Once, John had made the mistake of taking down some of the notes after a case had been closed, thinking he was helping his flatmate out a bit. Two lectures and a day of sulking later, he knew better.

Now, he stepped closer to the collection of photos and hastily-scribbled notes, examining them without touching. He paused at the picture of Helen Nash. "There was this woman in my unit," he mused aloud. "Private Lily Williams. She cornered me into a game of checkers one day and beat me thirteen games out of twenty."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "And you're telling me this…why?"

John blinked. "Uh…no reason, I guess. Something reminded me, that's all." Shaking his head, he stepped away from the wall and dropped into his chair, flicking on the television. _Talk show, morning news, kids' cartoon, more talk shows…_

"Nightmares?"

John's thumb paused over the channel changer and looked over at his friend. "Is it obvious?" he sighed.

Sherlock's mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. "Only to someone who knows what to look for."

John rolled his eyes. "Great." But it was comforting, somehow, that someone knew—knew, and didn't judge him for it, or think him weak.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Sherlock staring up at his notes and John watching the morning news report. There was a bit about the murder of Jeremy Ovington, but nothing about the two homeless victims. It irritated John—after all, Nash and Adams had been people too, probably with friends and family left to mourn.

There was a knock at the door.

"I'll get it," John offered, standing. He crossed the room and opened the door to find Greg Lestrade standing on the other side.

"Sorry to bother," the DI said, glancing over John's shoulder at Sherlock, who stood. "I'm on my way to a scene. Want to come with?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "Is it connected?"

"It is."

"I wouldn't miss it." He scooped up his coat and began to put it on.

John glanced at the clock. "How far?"

"Kensington Gardens," the DI replied. "West side."

"Well, I don't have to be at work until after noon," John said. "Mind if I tag along?"

"Please do." Sherlock brushed past both John and Lestrade, calling back, "I'll get a cab, Lestrade. We'll meet you there."

As John grabbed his jacket, Lestrade muttered, "One of these days I will get him in a squad car—just so I can say I _did_."

 

* * *

 

"There's bad news, and there's good news. And then there's more good news—what do you want first?"

Sherlock was crouched over the body of 28-year-old Thomas Shore, looking rather like a vulture in a coat and scarf, to John's imagination. The dark-haired detective spared a glance for Lestrade. "Does it make a difference?"

"Probably not. Bad news first then." He bent over and pointed at the right hand of the blonde-haired victim—John thought the boy hardly old enough to be out of school, let alone dead. "Thomas Shore. Age: 28, occupation: waiter at a nightclub. Same injection wound—my people are checking every stiff they find for these now. I think there's some kind of betting pool on it."

Sherlock smirked, and slipped a hand into the victim's pocket, withdrawing a scrap of paper and squinting at it. "And the good news?"

"Hold on—I'm not finished with the bad, yet." Lestrade stood up, speaking to John. "No family, no close friends—this guy could had vanished for weeks and no one would have noticed."

John shook his head. "Just like Ovington and the two homeless victims," he said. "Except…they _were_ found."

"Yeah. It's like the killer is picking people no one will really care about, but putting them places we'll be sure to find. Parking garage, a public park…even under that bridge—kids go down there all the time. Someone would have found them."

"Alright, well…" John peered over Sherlock's shoulder at the body. "Give us some good news?"

"There was a bullet this time."

Sherlock stood. "A bullet?"

"Yeah." Lestrade smiled proudly. "My boys in the crime lab ID-d the gun used. It's a SIG-Sauer. Standard issue all over the States, and several of our own military branches use it."

John felt his heart skip a beat. Sherlock stepped over the body and grabbed Lestrade by the shoulders; the look in his eye might have frightened a lesser man. "A SIG-Sauer?" he demanded. "You're certain."

"Well…yeah." Lestrade took a step back. "That's what they determined in the lab. I don't understand all the specifics—that's what we've got them for, but Sherlock—"

Detective Inspector Lestrade had worked with Sherlock Holmes for a long time—long enough to know when something had clicked in that fantastical mind. But even now—even after having worked with Sherlock for years—he couldn't have understood the meaning-laden look that the lanky detective shot John Watson.

The doctor did, though, and nodded sharply. "Right, yeah—" he said, and swallowed.

"Listen, John, are you alright?" Lestrade asked, concern in his voice. He looked from Sherlock to John and back. "What's going on?"

"I'm fine—fine." John managed. He waved a hand vaguely. "I'll…I'll just be going then. Have to be at work in…four hours. Better, uh…better get back." Turning swiftly, he walked away, over the green and toward the road.

He had to get back to the flat.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock watched his friend go, his brow furrowed in thought, and then shook his head. He turned back to Lestrade. "And the other good news?"

"What?" Lestrade was highly confused, but he shook his head sharply and brought his mind back to the case. "Oh—right. Good news. Well, other than one bullet, we still don't have fingerprints, DNA, or anything else to link anyone to the crimes. Except this."

He pulled out his cell phone and thumbed open his picture file. "See? We missed it on Ovington—had to go back and look. But it was there—scratched onto the wall. And Nash and Adams had it scribbled onto the concrete above them."

It was list of eight numbers: 97683415. It seemed random, but Sherlock knew better. He held out the slip of paper he had retrieved from the body. It held the same series of numbers. "This was in his pocket."

"Those numbers mean anything to you?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, and a series of images passed in front of his imagination. _No…no…perhaps—no, never mind…no…ridiculous…no…highly unlikely…never…no…_ "Not yet."

"Well, if you get anything, let me know."

"Always." Sherlock slipped his hands into his pockets. "Is that all?"

"No. One more thing." The DI closed out the pictures and pulled up a sound file. "Came in at about five this morning—from a pay phone."

" _I just saw something weird,_ " a male voice said. Sherlock frowned. That voice…it sounded familiar… " _There was this guy in Kensington Park. He was acting all weird, like he didn't want anyone, you know, seeing him. And he was hiding something in his pocket. Um…he was blonde and kind of short and, uh…he was wearing a black coat—it had leather patches on it. I remember thinking it was kind of a cool coat, but that the guy was weird."_

" _What do you mean by weird?"_ the officer on the line asked.

" _Like, he was sneaking along, trying to stay out of the light, and he kept looking over his shoulder. Like one of those guys you see on the news—like the soldiers going into terrorist's houses and stuff."_

Lestrade clicked the file off. "The officer tried to get his name, but he hung up. What do you think?"

Sherlock was staring into space. That voice…not the speaking pattern, not the pitch…but something about the voice itself nagged at his memory. And what the voice said, combined with the model of the gun…

"I think," he said slowly, "I need a little family time."

 

* * *

 

John's hands were firm as he unlocked the door to 221B, but he felt as if they ought to be shaking. Up the stairs and past the living room, up another flight and into his bedroom. He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and stared down at the object hidden inside.

His gun. It was there, and it hadn't been moved—he ought to know, he checked it often enough, out of fear that Sherlock might have borrowed it for who-knew-what. He breathed a sigh of relief and shut the drawer.

His gun. His _illegally owned_ gun. His illegally owned gun that Mycroft had pulled some strings to allow him to keep—under the radar, of course. The idea that some serial killer was out there, running around with the same model of gun as the one that hid in John's desk drawer was not one he wanted to dwell on—but at least it was only the same model, not the actual gun. For a second, there at the crime scene, he had been sure…

He pulled out his phone and sent Sherlock a quick text: _It's still here. -JW_

Something rattled downstairs.

John tensed, and cocked his head to listen. Someone was in the kitchen—he could hear them clattering around with dishes. Sherlock? No—Sherlock had sent him back to check on the gun. He would know that John would be on high alert, and would have shouted when he came in.

Someone was in the flat.

Creeping as quietly as he could, avoiding the squeaky third step down and keeping close to the wall, John slipped down the stairs, his pistol palmed and at the ready. Adrenaline pulsed in his head, and he breathed slowly, trying to ignore the faint scent of dust and sweat that his mind told him he could smell but which he knew wasn't really there.

The door to the living room was open, but the one that led into the kitchen was shut. John slipped through the doorway into the living room, keeping his back against the wall and craning his neck to catch a glimpse into the kitchen in the reflections of the framed pictures on the shelf beside the window. He could see something moving...but not enough to tell who or what it was.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped around the corner, bringing up the gun in one smooth motion.

Jim Moriarty looked up from the cup of tea he was stirring. "Hi," he warbled with a toothy grin. "Sugar?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. There's a bit of London geography in this one, as well as some forensics science regarding guns and ballistics. Both of these aspects were researched to the best of my abilities, but if anyone spots anything completely out of left field, do please let me know.
> 
> 2\. The serial number I gave John came from a quick Google search, which turned up some fan-made dog tags. If you Google the number, that's all that turns up. Didn't want to accidentally involve some innocent soldier... :)
> 
> And 3. This is the last chapter I'll post today -- seriously, I don't want to be clogging up people's notifications. Do let me know what ya'll think -- this is an older fic that I honestly haven't given a good look at in close to three years, so if you spot any glaring story or writing errors, let me know.
> 
> Much love!  
> ~Maggie


End file.
